


Skin Deep

by PinkGloom



Category: Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: AU, M/M, Sexy Times, Sherlock can paint, Sherlock's POV, Surprise blow jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkGloom/pseuds/PinkGloom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Sherlock Holmes is a famous painter who can paint the perfect likeness of anyone...that is until he meets John Watson. Rated M for sexy times in chp. 5 & up. Originally Posted on Fanfiction.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brush Stroke

Sherlock sipped at the red wine in his 'too fancy' crystal glass. He hated exhibitions of his work, although he was loath to admit it, he did enjoy all the attention. The only major problem, was that half the time, the compliments were little more than brown nosing. Simpletons trying to flatter him into painting their (or a family members') portrait.

His lip curled up involuntarily and a sigh dragged itself from his lips. Sherlock tipped back the rest of his wine and was about to make his way back inside when voices caught his attention.

"I'm not going to ask the man to draw you, Mary." A man's voice said in a loud 'I'm trying not to yell, but you're making it difficult' voice.

"You're not even going to ask him once! I can't believe you!" The woman on the other hand had no problem with screeching at the top of her lungs. "I've had it with you! We're through!" Sherlock could hear retreating footsteps and a glass shattering on the pavement.

Unable to stop his curiosity, Sherlock peaked around one of the bushes that been hiding the confrontation from view. It was a man in his mid to late twenties. Sherlock saw the glass around his feet and the wine that had splashed up onto his jeans.

He had sandy brown hair, sideburns and a bit of stubble that stood out in the dim lighting. He wore a black jacket with a dark red scarf. His jeans were tight and Sherlock's eyes lingered longer than necessary on the stranger's ass.

Instead of looking sad, Sherlock noticed a look of frustration and a bit of relief on his face.  _Obviously he had wanted to break it off but was afraid of hurting her feelings. How dull._ The stranger before him was clearly average, but Sherlock still felt a strong pull to talk to him. Of its own accord, his body pushed its way through the foliage and to the mysterious man.

"That was quite the scene."

The man whipped his head around and faced Sherlock.

Sherlock was instantly drawn to the man's eyes. From far away he had only seen the outline of his facial features, but up close Sherlock was amazed at how deep and blue the other man's eyes were.

"Sorry about that mate." He clinched his jaw. "She was always a bit of a drama queen."

Sherlock gave a polite laugh.  _Average._ His mind reminded him. "Do your dates always end so smashingly well?"

The man's face scrunched up. Sherlock knew he was going to get yelled at, called a rude name and the other man would stomp away; much like how the woman just had. Instead, he began to laugh. Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion.

"'Smashingly well'? You are a cheeky bastard!" He continued to laugh and his shoulders shook.

Sherlock coughed into his curled hand. "I suppose." He let out one chuckle.

The man stuck out his hand. "John Watson. Pleasure to meet you."

Sherlock gripped John's hand in a handshake but didn't state his name.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The laugh lines on John's face disappeared and he jerked his hand away from Sherlock's touch. "How did you guess that?"

"I don't guess. I deduced."

One of John's eyebrows shot up in a quizzical manner. "All right. How did you 'deduce' it?"

Sherlock choose to ignore the condescending tone in his question. "Your hair is short in a military style cut, although it has begun to grow out. Your posture is straighter than most people and the distance you kept between your legs shows a man who is used to standing 'at attention' and 'at ease'. Although, your left shoulder looks stiff, most likely tissue damage. How? Bullet. You're not a police officer, so war zone. Where have the British been fighting?" Sherlock looked as if he could continue but he stopped almost mid-thought.

Even though his previous sly remark had not gotten John angry, this was sure too. No one liked having their privacy invaded by a stranger. John's mouth was hanging open in a surprised silence.

Sherlock sighed internally. "Well?"

"That was brilliant."

The gears in Sherlock's head came to complete halt. "Excuse me?"

"Brilliant. Fantastic! Could you really get all that from the way I stand? Bloody hell!" John looked down at his body, as if he had a sign on him, with all his personal information written out.

Sherlock only turned a light shade of pink around his neck, which was, thankfully, hidden by his blue scarf. "That's not what most people say." And by most, he meant  _everyone_.

"Well, what do 'most people' say?"

"Piss off." Sherlock gave the answer with a dead pan look that made John laugh all over again. It was slightly higher pitched and sounded almost like a giggle. Sherlock found that he liked it.

"You never did tell me your name."

"Mycroft Holmes." For some reason, he felt compelled to lie about who he truly was. He didn't want John to know that his girlfriend had stormed out because of him. A deep part in Sherlock's brain hoped she was now an ex-girlfriend.

"Wow! So you're the brother of the guy whose exhibition this is?"

Sherlock nodded his head in confirmation.

"I hope you don't mind me saying, but I heard he is a bit off his rocker." John said and licked his lips. Sherlock was only momentarily distracted by the action.

"I suppose. I really don't care what you say about him." Sherlock didn't feel too guilty, considering it was something his brother really would say.

"I mean, personally, I don't know anything about the bloke. I've just heard things. Like how he doesn't have any friends and he treats all his clients like they're little more than furniture. You know, only there to serve one purpose. A cold sort of guy."

"That's quite an opinion for a man you know nothing about." Sherlock tried to hid the frown that was creeping its way onto his lips. What did he care what this man said about him? He was famous! Desired by hundreds, if not thousands of people begging...no  _pleading_ to have his attention.

"Right, sorry. Just repeating the rumors I've heard-mostly tonight, really." John said.

His words stung more than they should. Sherlock knew none of the people in the exhibition hall really cared about _him_ ,but only about his gift and his ability to capture it on canvas.  _As long as they continued to throw money at me_. Sherlock scoffed.

"Want to get back to the party? I could do with another drink." John passed a glance at his ruined glass all over the ground.

Although the party had been torture before, the thought of going back was almost unbearable now. "Tell you what, I'll go get us something harder than wine and we can just, I don't know, stay out here for a bit. It's too stifling inside for me." Sherlock was proud at the way he had made his voice falter, perfect pitch. John would have to comply.

Proving to be more of an enigma than he could have previously imagined, John looked at him with a weird look on his face. "What was that?"

"What was what?" Sherlock had the picture perfect look of innocence on his face.

"Don't do that. You're voice, changed." John's stuck his tongue out in disgust. "Just be yourself, mate. You looked like you were trying to deliver movie lines to me."

Sherlock could barely believe what he was hearing. It  _always_ worked. Well, he couldn't fool the real Mycroft, but everyone else, even people he had known for years, never saw through his 'I'm only pretending for your benefit' speeches and tones.

John walked a few paces back and plopped himself in the nearest chair. "I'll be here." He gave him a mock salute.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock darted his way through the hall with two glasses and a full bottle of whiskey. For some reason, Sherlock wanted to see how John acted while drunk. He was sure it would prove to be a very informative experiment.

Right as he was about to be out of danger's way, he heard his brother's voice calling for him. Mycroft's voice was stranded and had a hint of anger to it. Sherlock smirked and turned around to face his older brother.

"Mycroft."

The man sighed and drew his lips up in a tight line. "Sherlock, I have been looking for you for the last half an hour. You need to give your speech, remember?" Mycroft's voice dropped dangerously low at the ending.

"Please, You are much better equipped to give the speech in my steed." Sherlock turned as if to go and almost clashed into John.

"Mycroft, I was wondering what was taking you so long. Hope you don't mind."

"Pardon?" The real Mycroft questioned.

If he hadn't been holding three very breakable pieces of glass, Sherlock would have been tempted to face palm himself. _It had all been going so nicely too..._

"Who might you be?" John eyed Mycroft suspiciously.

"I'm Mycroft and who might you be?"

John head swiveled back and forth between the two brothers. "I've missed something, haven't I?"

Sherlock kept his lips sealed and waited for Mycroft to explain.

"If you meant to address the man between us, I do believe you should be calling him Sherlock Holmes. The man whose party this is. You are aware of that last bit, I hope." There was no need to try and look for the sarcasm in Mycroft's speech, it had practically dripped with it.

John's eyes narrowed. "Well, if this has been some sort of joke, it wasn't every funny."

John turned to leave and Sherlock realized how desperate he was to have the man stay. "Wait!" His voice rang out and caught the attention of the art critics in the viewing room.

"He's my new job."

"What?" Mycroft asked incredulously.

Sherlock squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "I said, I am painting John Watson's portrait next."

Mycroft frowned. "You have already promised to paint Madam Baskerville next."

"She'll just have to wait."

Mumbles began to erupt all around the room. Everyone had heard what the famous painter had said, and it was surely being plastered all over the social media sites before the conversation was even over. Mycroft looked scandalized.

"Wait just a minute. No one has even asked me if I want to have my bloody portrait done." John's voice was laced with anger and confusion.

"Believe me Mr. Watson, you would. Do you even realize how much the pieces in this exhibition retail for?" Mycroft sneered.

John gulped.

"No, he doesn't, but that's not the point. I'm painting him because  _I_ want to...free of charge." Sherlock waited for the storm that would erupt over his brother's features, he wasn't disappointed.

Mycroft practically sputtered out the word,  _"Free?!"_

Mycroft brought his thumb and pointer finger up to his face and pinched the at the top of his nose. Sherlock smiled. It was worth it all just to see that smug look Mycroft alway wore wiped off of his face.

"There John, it has all been settled. Now, let's go have that drink."

John followed behind, too stunned to refuse.

 


	2. Brush Stroke 2

Sherlock was not giddy with anticipation. It was only natural that he wanted his flat to look its very best. So what if he had cleaned up that pile of newspapers that had been there for a week? Seriously, he had really needed to do the dishes; even if that only meant throwing them in the dishwasher.

A paintbrush twitched in Sherlock's fingers impatiently.  _John is late._ Well, technically he wasn't early, but that might as well be late in Sherlock's mind. Sherlock was reminded of the irritated look John had given him after the fiasco with his brother.

John had refused to join Sherlock for another drink, but at least he had agreed to met him at his flat the next day. Sherlock was beginning to worry if John was really going to show or not.  _Doesn't really matter. I know his name. John Watson, you better watch out, I'll send Mycroft after you._

With those evil thoughts mixing around his head, the doorbell rang. Sherlock smoothed out his jacket. The doorbell rang again, sounding more insist. "Who is it?"

"You know who it is. Stop being an ass and open the door!" Called John's voice from the hallway.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  _Such language._  He waited for only another second, before making his way to the front door.

"So happy you could join me." Sherlock said.

"Seriously? I'm a minute late." John said. He took off his jacket and casually hung it on the coat stand; mixing it in with Sherlock's overcoats.

Sherlock surveyed John's shirt..."This will never do." He clucked his tongue. "To the bedroom." Sherlock turned around and began to walk to his room.

" _What?_ "

Sherlock turned back around to face a very red John. Sherlock shook his head. "Seriously? Do keep up. I am talking about your shirt. I cannot paint a portrait with  _that_ shirt in it."

John looked down at his stripped black and white long sleeved shirt. "What's wrong with it? Was all the rage last year."

Sherlock made a face and continued on his way. John plodded after him.

* * *

"I refuse to wear purple."

"I'm not letting you wear that red. It clashes with your skin tone."

And on and on it went. One man suggesting a shirt and the other one shooting it down. There was a heap of clothing on Sherlock's bed and they were still no closer to reaching a conclusion than they had been two hours before. They had only stopped when John demanded tea. Sherlock stated, "If you want it, go make it yourself; I'm busy." So John had done just that.

John returned with two mugs of tea and Sherlock offered him a small smile and a muttered, "Thanks." Still, John refused to relent about his clothing.

"Don't you want it to reflect the man that your painting?" John asked in an exhausted tone.

"Of course I do. However, your choice of attire makes you look as if you had escaped an American jail." After that, Sherlock was sure if death glares could kill a person, he would have never left his room alive that day.

Finally, they found a shirt to agree on. It was a dark meadow green and it outlined John's hair so that it appeared blonder. Also, it helped to reflect the blue in his eyes. John took his shirt off to try on the green one.

Sherlock's eyes were immediately drawn to the wound on John's left shoulder. John must have felt his gaze, because he stopped putting on the other shirt; letting it hang on his arms, over-stretching it across his chest.

John scoffed. "Maybe I could just go shirtless. Then again, no one would pay money for that would they?"

Sherlock wordless approached John and placed a finger over the scar. He felt the scar tissue under this fingertips and Sherlock fully realized why the man before him had such trouble with his shoulder. John hissed but he didn't offer a word of protest under Sherlock's probing touch.

He examined it with sight and touch. His fingers telling him how long the wound had been there, how it had healed and the pain it gave its bearer. With sight, Sherlock could see the angle the bullet had traveled and what muscles it had cut through. Satisfied with his conclusions, Sherlock withdrew his fingers.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "If I am to draw an accurate portrait, I need to be familiar with my subject."

For some reason, John's face took on a sour look. He buttoned up the shirt and avoided looking Sherlock in the eye. "Going around and feeling everyone up, are we?"

Sherlock didn't dignify the question with an answer.

* * *

Sherlock sat alone in his kitchen sipping at cold tea. He and John had spent so much time trying to agree on a shirt, that Sherlock hadn't even had time to get one rough sketch done. Apparently, John was working part-time at the hospital and had been unable to give away his shift.

The green shirt was laying out on the kitchen table; Sherlock gave it odd looks every few sips of tea.  _Blasted shirt._ Sherlock pursed his lips. He got up from the table and went into the living room.

Although he did not normally like flaunting his artwork everywhere, his flat did have a few of his favorites hanging up. They were only copies of the originals but he didn't mind. Sherlock plopped down on his chair and brought his violin up to his chin. He began playing a low, lazy melody.

Sherlock had read in newspaper articles over the years about how 'He captures the essence of that person' or 'The eyes look as if they would blink at any moment' but still Sherlock wondered slightly why it was so hard for everyone else to see what came naturally to him. Like the bow of the violin, paint brushes flowed and created effortless under his touch.

Although, Sherlock secretly knew it was more his ability to deduce than to paint. That he could see beyond what the average person could see, that was his gift. At a younger age he had almost thought it a curse, until his parents had tried every outlet they could think of for his observations.

Sherlock got a glorious high when he picked the color that perfectly represented his clients eyes or the correct shade for freckles on their face. He could read the worry lines on their brow and the smile lines creasing the skin around their mouth. With his ability to know their life story, he could paint them like no other artist could.

_So, why did I pick John?_ It was true that Sherlock had painted his share of exceptionally plain subjects, but he had never willing picked one, and yet he had picked John Watson. Although John seemed to be plain on the surface he was turning out to be quite the puzzle.  _By the time I'm done with the painting I'll know him better than his own mother._ Sherlock smiled and continued to play on.

* * *

"No, you aren't allowed to talk."

John had finally arrived an hour before, and Sherlock was trying to sketch him out on paper. The only problem, being, that John refused to shut up. He kept repeated requests for 'a conversation' and had nearly driven Sherlock up the wall. Also John was seated on one of the kitchen chairs and kept fidgeting.

"Can we at least turn on the radio?"

"No." Sherlock didn't bother looking up from the line he was drawing.

"I refuse to sit here for the next two hours in silence. Either the telly or the radio get turned on, or you start talking. I don't care which, but you better pick one in the next five seconds."

There was four seconds of silence before Sherlock relented. "Fine, fine. You want noise? I'll tell you about my experiments. That will shut you up."

Sherlock had been expecting John to tell him to 'shut up' within the first ten minutes. Instead, John listened with a patient curiosity. Occasionally, exclaiming "That's mad!" or "Fantastic!". Sherlock told him to hush, but secretly he swelled with contentment.

Sherlock described his evolving painting techniques, how he picked one brush over another and how he kept body parts in the kitchen. The last bit of information caught most of John's interest.

"What, you have what? Fingers? In your kitchen?" John's eyebrows shot up.

"Yes, fingers at the moment. It was a foot last month. It helps with anatomy. Being able to see how the body works inside and out. I visit the morgue quite frequently." Sherlock was only slightly caught off guard by John's smile.  _Why does he have to look at me like that? As if I'm the interesting one and not my ability._

Sherlock cleared his throat. He closed his sketchpad and stood up. "That will be all for today. Can I expect you at 3pm tomorrow?"

John took off the green shirt and put it back on its hanger. Sherlock found something very interesting to examine on the wall.

Sherlock made his way over to the front door, but stopped when he didn't hear any answering footsteps. He turned around, and John was standing with his head down. He had his left hand brushing up and down on his right arm in an awkward motion. "So, I was thinking, if you're free tonight, want to grab dinner?"

Sherlock blinked repeatedly. Why was he being asked out to dinner? "I don't go out to eat with my clients." Sherlock stated but with an undertone of confusion.  _If I'm not painting him, then why would we spend time together?_ No one had ever wanted to just spend time with Sherlock 'the person' and not Sherlock 'the painter'.

John's arm dropped and he let out a nervous chuckle. "Sorry, my mistake. I thought we were on friendlier terms." He swept past Sherlock and quickly put his jacket on. John had opened the door, when Sherlock's mind had finally re-adjusted itself.

"Would you mind if we ate in instead?" Sherlock didn't realize he was holding his breath.

John stepped away from the door and shut it. "With the body parts? Sure, why the hell not?"

* * *

They quietly nibbled at their Chinese take out. Normally, he wouldn't even be eating so much when working on a painting but John insisted. So, Sherlock sat at the mostly cluttered table trying to force one more eggroll into his mouth.

John, on the other hand, had made fast work of his meal. "I can't believe that you go weeks without barely eating anything! Do you need a handler or something?"

Sherlock made a disgusted face. "No, I don't. The work is what I have and I don't need boring activities, like eating, bothering me."

John grabbed at some of the beef on Sherlock's plate with his chopsticks before continuing. "Mycroft never comes here and feeds you?"

If possible, Sherlock's face looked even more disgusted than before. "Mycroft? Worry about anything other than the finished product of all my labors? I imagine not."

"Do you have a girlfriend that ever brings you food?"

"You know more about that area than I do."

John gulped. "Okay, then. How about a boyfriend?"

"I have neither. I have my work." Sherlock took another bite from the semi-cold chinese take-out.

"Isn't that lonely?" John asked.

"Why? As stated a moment ago, I have my work. Everything else is transport." Sherlock placed the greasy food down and whipped his hands off on a napkin.

"Transport? Meaning...?"

"Meaning, I concentrate on what is important-getting the job done right, on time and with my full attention. Any urges that my body has, other than the ones that are useful to my craft, I ignore." Sherlock licked at his thumb, one piece of breading refused to come off.

John blushed. "Oh."

"Very articulate of you."

"Shut up." John pushed his chair back and got up to heat up another kettle for tea. He reached for the still nearly full mug of tea in front of Sherlock. "Was it too strong?"

Sherlock shook his head and grabbed the mug out of John's left hand. Sherlock tipped his head back and finished the cold tea in a few big gulps. Sherlock placed the mug in John's open palm. "Better?"

"You're such a drama queen." John said sarcastically, but there were smile crinkles around his eyes.

 


	3. Brush Stroke 3

Sherlock was draped over his couch staring at his mobile screen. He had received the first text message in a month, that hadn't come from his brother or Lestrade, and it make him more irritated than he thought possible.

'Working a double. Have to cancel.' JW

Sherlock frowned at the two small sentences.  _Cancel? Cancel? Cancel?!_  Sherlock could have people lining the streets for him and this man had the audacity to cancel on him. It wasn't that he was disappointed; no, it wasn't as if he had  _wanted_ to see him again.

Sherlock's frown deepened. He contemplated throwing the mobile at the wall, but then realized he would have to get up to get it. So instead he dropped it onto his chest and stared up at the ceiling. There were a hundreds things he could do, but suddenly he didn't want to do any of them. Sherlock was in full sulk-mode.

He sighed and looked at the message one more time.  _Ignore me will you?_ Sherlock opened the text message reply box and his fingers hovered over the keys. 'Come for an hour.' SH. He waited a moment and then hit the send button. He wasn't being desperate...his work just couldn't be hindered because of his client's personal issues.

The mobile refused to give an answering beep. Sherlock waited a five whole minutes, before he was tempted to send another text. However, a reply came. 'Fine. You Jerk.' JW.

Sherlock re-read the message, put his mobile in his pocket and stood up. What was he doing wasting precious time laying on the couch? There was work to be done!

* * *

Sherlock was on his mobile with Lestrade when John came over. Sherlock noticed, with a passing thought, that John hadn't knocked but instead barged right in. He held his finger up for silence and John sat on the sofa with a huff.

"Yes, I'll be there in a few minutes." Sherlock hung up.

"You're  _going somewhere?_ I just got here!" John sounded less than pleased.

"It was Scotland Yard. There's been a murder and there is no way to identify the victim. They want me to draw a sketch for identification." Sherlock was putting on his jacket and tying his scarf in a flurry of activity. "Do you want to come?"

John cocked up an eyebrow. "You want me to watch you sketch?"

"We have to visit the crime scene first." Sherlock had a small smile dancing on his lips. He wasn't completely sure why, but he knew this information would entice John Watson.

John stood up and wrung his hands together. "All right." Sherlock was quickly learning to love that flint of excitement in John's eyes.

* * *

"Who the hell is this?" A man with gray hair asked Sherlock. The whole area was abuzz with police activity. This was no small matter. There had already been four murders like it, and a small grip of fear was starting to take over the city.

"He's with me."

Although Sherlock seemed to think that this would answer all the man's questions, it didn't. "Sherlock! I can allow you on site, but why him?"

"Because, you need my expertise and I need his advice." Sherlock put on the white latex gloves and made his way to the room where the murder victim was. He heard a sigh and Lestrade say, "Oh, go on then."

The carnage that Sherlock saw before him, was enough to alarm even him. The poor victim's face, fingertips and all recognizable features had been burned off. Sherlock closed his eyes, and detached himself from the man before him.  _No, this isn't a man-it's a corpse. A shell of who it used to represent._

There were times that he hated his gifts. The ability to see so much, all the information hitting him like a wave. All the seemly insignificant details that others could process out, Sherlock saw and categorized; forced to deal with the endless flow of data.

A gasp from behind him brought him back to the present. Although John was a solider and a doctor, Sherlock was sure that, this was probably a rare sight even for him. "Holy fuck. Who could do something like this?" For once, Sherlock agreed with John's choice of words.

"What can you gather from the scene?" Sherlock didn't turn his eyes from the corpse hanging before him.

John moved pass him and approached it. His gaze moved all over the body, surveying the burns and lacerations. "He was already dead before any of those knife wounds were administered. He appears to have been dead for ten plus hours. Cause of death is hard to tell, but I think he was hung, then burned and then stabbed." John backed away from the body. John turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock wasn't surprised to see the fear there, but he was pleasantly surprised to see the excitement, the spark there, outlining the fear. Sherlock drew his attention back to the body. He whirled around it, taking in the small details. The style of clothes, the way the skin had melted, age, skin condition, color, and all the small factors that helped him to produce not only a sketch of the victim but also a composite of the murderer.

Lestrade's voice cut into the silence. "So, any ideas?"

Sherlock stopped circling the corpse. "A couple. I want all the crime photos sent to my e-mail. As well as copies of all the reports, on this murder and previously thought connected ones."

Lestrade nodded.

"If that will be all." Sherlock took off his latex gloves.

* * *

John was quiet on the taxi ride back. Sherlock thought of a couple different ways to start a conversation but none seemed right. Instead he focused on what he had seen at the scene.

"How long have you been doing this? I mean, for the police." John stared out the window.

"It was all by chance really. I was reading the paper and there was an article about certain issues of identifying a murder victim. I sent in a sketch and with it, they found the man's identity and thus the killer." Sherlock smiled at the thought. "After that, Lestrade has asked for my assistance when a case needs the greatest of care."

John turned to face him. "That is fantastic. Is there anything you can't do?"

Sherlock was lost for a reply. John's comment had completely caught him off guard. His mouth was open to talk but no sound came out. John smiled. "You really are amazing." John nodded his head as if confirming something to himself.

"Thank you." Sherlock searched for more words, but there were none that really seemed to convey what he wanted to tell the man across from him. How much those few words meant to him. John kept surprising him.

* * *

They walked into Sherlock's flat but John didn't take off his jacket. "Well, I suppose I should leave you to your work. I'll be setting off." John turned to go. Suddenly the last thing that Sherlock wanted was for John to go.

He grabbed his arm. John looked up at him with confusion. "I still want to do that rough sketch first." Sherlock didn't remove his grip from John's sleeve. John blinked slowly once and licked his lips. "Shouldn't you be more concerned about the murder?"

If possible, Sherlock got even closer. He could feel John's warm breath on his down turned face. "It will take half an hour at most. Stay."  _Please._ Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say the last part.

"Fine." John's adam apple bobbed as he gulped.

Sherlock let his sleeve go and walked his way over to his easel. John sat down in his chair and faced forward.

* * *

Sherlock looked up after working on one tricky line to see John's head lulling to one side. His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted. Sherlock opened his mouth to wake John up but quickly snapped it shut again without a word. _This is a perfect opportunity to study him up close._ Sherlock laid down his pencil and quietly made his way over to John.

He stood over him for a moment. Sherlock watched his head and chest barely move; regular shallow breathing patterns, as sleep overtook him completely. His eyes traced over his hair; a combination of blonde and light brown. Sherlock looked forward to finding the correct shade for painting it.

Bending down, Sherlock looked up at him. John's features were soft in sleep. His lips were a light pink and Sherlock marveled at how they framed his white teeth. He had short stubble covering his face, and Sherlock's fingers twitched, a desire to feel its roughness, under his fingertips. The green shirt really did look magnificent on him. It was crinkled in a few places. Sherlock saw hint of chest hair in between some buttons that had opened up. Seeing it, reminded Sherlock of when he had seen John with his shirt off. Sherlock bit at his lower lip.

What was it about this man that was capturing his interest so? Sherlock now retracted his previous opinion of John Watson being 'average' but still...he wasn't- Sherlock couldn't find the word.

"John." Sherlock barely whispered the sleeping man's name, afraid to wake him up. Maybe he could call him that. Truly be on a first name basis with another person. Sherlock's lips tugged up in a smile.

Sherlock stood up and walked back to his easel. He grabbed his sketchbook and pencils. He made his way back over to John and sat indian style on the ground. His eyes traced over John's sleeping face and began to draw.

* * *

Sherlock was mixing colors together in the kitchen when John stumbled in. He was wiping sleep out of his eyes, which gave Sherlock a moment to hid his blush. Somehow his hair had become tousled and with a day's worth of stubble, Sherlock didn't know if he had ever seen a more kissable face. Horrified by that thought, Sherlock averted his eyes and went back to his work.

John mumbled a "Hello" and put the kettle on. With the stove turned on, John turned to Sherlock. "Why did you leave me asleep like that? My neck is bloody killing me now." As if to prove his point, John moved it stiffly from side to side.

"The aspirin is in the second cabinet next to the refrigerator."

"Thanks." He opened the cabinet and took out the small plastic bottle. John popped three into his mouth and swallowed. "So, what are you working on now?"

John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder. "I find that store brand paints can be bland and flat. Therefore, I have devised a system to improve some and to make my own." Sherlock continued to measure out his dyes. The kettle began to hiss and John went to take it off the stove. Instantly, Sherlock missed the warmth, that had been radiating from John, onto his back.

John handed him a mug of hot tea. Sherlock sniffed at it and placed it on the table. John stood at Sherlock's side. "Have anything to eat here? I'm starving."

Sherlock shook his head. "I think there might be some stale crackers somewhere."

John sighed. "I should have known. You don't even have milk." John sighed again. "Well, its two in the morning. I guess nothing is open."

"There's a 24 hour market near here."

John blew on his tea and took a sip. "I guess I'll have to go pick up a microwave dinner. What do you want?"

Sherlock looked up at him and searched John's eyes. "I'm not hungry."

John's lips formed a thin line. "When's the last time you ate?"

"The eggrolls."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm picking you up something and you're eating it. Even if I have to feed you myself." John's cheeks tinted pink but his eyes were resolute.

"If you most." Sherlock kept his tone bored sounding but inwardly he was pleased beyond all measure.

 


	4. Brush Stroke 3

Sherlock was eating toast.

Well, that wasn't the anomaly. It was that Sherlock Holmes was eating toast at  _breakfast._ But if Sherlock really faced the situation, that wasn't what was odd about it either. It was that he was eating breakfast with John...that was some of it but there was still another part missing.

Sherlock took a few slow chews of his toast and the thought, that had been alluding him, finally struck. He was eating breakfast with  _the same person_ he had eaten dinner (abeit a late one) with. Even reaching into the farthest parts of his mind, he couldn't remember when that had happened.

When he had been a child, his mother had always been busy with planning events. His father had been running a (or several) company. Mycroft had been in the government since he was sixteen. Sure, they had all eaten together, mostly on holidays, but never one meal after another.

Sherlock sat in contemplative, then stunned silence, taking in the scene around him. John was quietly reading the newspaper after making breakfast. His hair was wet, having just taken a shower, and he was wearing one of Sherlock's old t-shirts.

_Domestic._ That was the word he was looking for. They looked like they did this every morning. Shower, breakfast and then the day. Sherlock's eyes darted around frantically.  _This is ridiculous. So average, dull..._ Just like when he had been telling himself that John Watson was an 'everyman', Sherlock knew he was lying; trying to convenience himself that it happened to other people but it didn't happen to  _him._

John sighed. "Work is going to be hell today. Think I need some more aspirin." John's chair scooted back and he had his way over to the cabinets. Sherlock smiled at John and it quickly became a frown and then a blank expression took over his features.

_God, he feels so comfortable here. Almost as if John belongs here in 221B...with me._ It had been so slow and so fast. Sherlock could have tried to stop it, but he really hadn't wanted too.  _John, here, with me, every morning, noon and night. Us. Together._

Before, the thought of another human invading his privacy had given him chills- from the thought of their grabby hands on his experiments and driving him crazy. Now, now chills, and the thought of grabby hands all over him, was driving him crazy, but for a completely different variety.

Sherlock let out a light gasp and as he felt blood pooling in his lower half. There was no denying it, not only his brain but his body was responding to the thought of John.  _What can I do to make him stay?_ Sherlock needed to formulate a plan so that John would not leave...or maybe, if he was lucky, not want to leave.

"So, I better be off to work then. I'll be here after my shift, say 4pm work for you?"

Sherlock shook his head, clearing the fog out of it. "Uh, yes. Four sounds perfectly acceptable."

John gave him a smile and went into the bathroom to change his shirt. Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat.

* * *

"I can't do that!"

Sherlock loved visiting the morgue, especially when a fresh body arrived that had been donated to science or for its organs, and today turned out to be one of those lucky days. Molly had just called him with some excellent news and he dashed off right away. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of asking her about John, and soon as her flailing about had stopped, she proceed to give the worse advice (in Sherlock's opinion) ever.

"Why not?" Molly asked while unzipping the body bag.

"Sure, I can just say 'Let's go out on a date?'. It's too simple, too boring. Besides, I need to trick him, although that won't be too difficult."

"Yes, exactly why do you need to trick him again?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and proceeded to study the corpse. "Molly, one does not go about this without proper consideration. It needs to be done with elegance and I refuse to sound like I actual want to be with him."

Molly gritted her teeth and forced a smile. "Why don't you take him to one of those parties your brother always makes you go too? Although, I don't know..."

_A public setting. Not really a date, but more than just staying at the flat. I can get dressed up again...I know he likes the way my ass looks in those dark blue dress trousers._ Sherlock's eyes alighted with an evil gleam. "I suppose, yes, that would do quite adequately."

"You're welcome." Molly smiled. "He must be pretty special this, John Watson."

Sherlock continued to exam the corpse, happy that he had been able to handle the problem so quickly and efficiently.

* * *

"I am not going to another one of those bloody parties." John's face screwed up in irritation. "Why in the world would you think I would ever want to go to another one of those?"

Sherlock had been expecting some resistance but John was proving to be more stubborn than he would have imagined.

"Please." Although it hadn't worked last time, Sherlock let his eyes take on a sad quality and his voice dropped, looking as pathetic as possible.

John let out a snort.

_Okay, I can't fool him with that then._ He was in the middle of formulating another excuse or plea when John spoke up. "Fine, fine. I'll go to the stupid thing. Explain to me again, why am I doing this?"

"Stop whining and sit still. I'm trying to outline your nose."

Sherlock fiddled with his collar. He really hated ties. The high tight knot made him feel like he was choking. In all actuality, if it wasn't for John, he would have found an excuse to bow out all together.  _Last time I couldn't show him how charming I can be._

If John could see how others fawned on him, he was sure to get jealous, and that would lead to John wanting to see more of him, which, in turn, would result in John needing Sherlock. It was an obvious chain of reactions, leading to the desired conclusion.

_John needing me._ It sent a jolt through his veins. It didn't matter really what steps were took, as long as the end result was the same. With John's undivided attention, he could accompany him to crime scenes and tell him how brilliant he was on a regular basis and make tea for him. Naturally, there would be the annoyance of John demanding he eat or sleep, but it seemed like a reasonable bargain.

Instead of a knock, Sherlock heard his front door open. "Here!"

"Obviously." He gave himself a look over once more in the mirror and went out to met John.

* * *

It was an uneventful evening. All the patrons had complemented Sherlock on everything possible and he had took it with a cold detachment, only acting embarrassed or pleased when John was near enough to hear it. He saw John's eyes flash dangerously a few times (with what he hoped was jealousy) and Sherlock smiled to himself.

Once they had returned to the flat, Sherlock expected to hear a waterfall of praises from John. Instead, John had a different idea.

"I can't make it tomorrow, I have a date."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Of all the statements he had been hoping for, this one hadn't been one of them. "Excuse me, a date?"

"Yeah, it's when two people who like each other go out."

"Isn't that what we just did?" Sherlock tried to keep the confusion out of his voice but he really didn't understand. What more did John want from him?

John rubbed his temples. "Yes, I mean no, I don't know. Was it?"

"If one person doesn't like the other person than I suppose, no, it wasn't a 'date'." Sherlock tried to keep the bite out of his words but it was underlining every word he spoke.

"Well, then. That settles it." John proceeded to rub the heel of his palm over his forehead. "I don't understand why you have to be so touchy about it."

"I'm not being 'touchy'." Sherlock sounded scandalized.

"Yes, yes, you are. You know, I'm really beginning to regret this whole thing. I was thrown into it without anyone caring about what I thought. God, you're such a fucking baby. I thought some of my girlfriends were bad...You're such a priss."

"I am not." Sherlock lowered his tone. "Just because simpletons don't understand me..."

John threw his hands up and interrupted him. "Because, I'm  _Sherlock Holmes_ and no one can compete with my massive intellect! Right? Well, guess what? I have a date and I won't be here tomorrow and the day after that isn't looking too good either."

Sherlock went to open his mouth, but John won't let him speak.

"No, I'm leaving now. End of discussion. Why is this even a discussion? I'm your client. Not a friend, not even an acquaintance. Just a painting you can hang on the wall, so everyone can tell you how fucking  _marvelous_ you are!" With that, John slammed the door close.

Sherlock let his shoulders slump for only a moment.  _It had been a foolish thought really..._ Sherlock let out a weak laugh. _Alone is what have, what I am. Alone protects me._ With that thought, Sherlock squared his shoulders. He didn't need anyone and he certainly didn't need John Watson.

 


	5. Brush Stroke 4

Two days. It had been two days since John had stormed out. Sherlock refused to text, call or otherwise contact the other man. In that time, he also hadn't drunken a single cup of tea. His easel sat propped up in his living room with the outline of John staring blankly back at him.

Sherlock kept himself busy. He perfected the composition he had been working on and his study on the muscles of the upper arm was going splendidly. But now he always kept his mobile within arms reach and his gaze would wander occasionally over to the door.

He was categorizing different shading techniques when his mobile gave off on sharp beep in the quiet flat. Even though no one was watching him, Sherlock took a moment before he reached for it, trying not to get his hopes up too much.

'Are you busy tonight?' -JW

For a moment, Sherlock was tempted to lie. He would tell John that  _Of course I'm busy_ but even he knew that was a bad idea. A thousand responses flew through his mind but all he could type was, 'No.' -SH

It only took a half-second before their was an answering beep. 'I'll be over after my shift. 7pm.' -JW

It wasn't a question- it was a statement. John would be back in the flat again. Sherlock went back to his categorizing but with an excited happiness lining his features. After a few minutes, he got up and got the kettle ready for John.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes to darkness. His vision slowly adjusted and he could hear the light murmuring of a crowd that was far away. He tried to get his barring, but everything was out of place.  _Wasn't I just been in my flat? What's going on?_ He turned his head around, taking in the fact that he was outside...in what appeared to be a familiar place.

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock whipped his head around to come face to face with John. Except this John didn't look angry with him. This John was smiling, and his eyes were soft. Sherlock looked him over head to toe. He finally understood the situation when Sherlock noted the wine stain on John's trousers.

"I'm dreaming about the night we met."

"I knew you were a smart man." John slowly approached him. His hands came to rest on Sherlock's hips. John looked up at him. "Now, why would we be dreaming about this?"

Sherlock tried to focus on the question but found it difficult to concentrate with John's hands on him in such an intimate way. "I suppose I need to visit the scene again."

"Why?" John's hands pressed into his hip bones. Sherlock was amazed by his firm grip; John could easily leave bruises if he wanted too. That thought thrilled Sherlock more than he would ever admit too.

"First impressions. I want to understand what your impression is concerning me. I need to understand you, John. I find you so difficult to comprehend,"  _and I so desperately want to take you apart._ Whether it was with his hands more his mind, Sherlock wasn't sure yet. There were still so many factors that needed to be categorized, data to be sorted.

John's hands began to move up. They traced a line up the sides of his torso and came to join each other at the front of his chest. His palms grazed over Sherlock's nipples and he let out a sharp breath. John paid him no mind and instead concentrated on his hands. They glided up and down, working their way back up to rest on Sherlock's collarbone. John's thumbs traced over the sharp lines.

Sherlock didn't know what he was feeling. His body was sending so many signals, that they were getting crossed and lost in each other. He tried to convince himself that it was only a figment of his imagination but it felt so real. Sherlock final found his tongue, it was thick and heavy in his mouth. "John, I don't understand." His voice came out hoarse. There was only one thought going through him like a mantra,  _I don't understand any of this and it frightens me._

Raw emotions were not something that Sherlock Holmes dealt with, not even silly daydreams like the one he was having now. It was his first time experiencing anything like it. John's hot breath came in poofs and Sherlock relished the tingling it produced on his skin, even if it was over his shirt.

"I can't tell you in words."

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask for John to explain, when suddenly John was pushing on his chest. Sherlock fell back into a chair that hadn't been there before. He watched wordlessly as John got on his knees. Sherlock's eyes could only linger on John, as the man's hands moved up from his thighs to his groin.

Sherlock let out a small moan as John's left hand came to rest on his crouch. He was only half-hard but the small touch sent signals to his brain that he found difficult to interrupt. "John...what are you doing?"

John looked up at him. His pupils were huge and this eyes glistened with something Sherlock could not name but it sent a jolt down to his cock nevertheless. "I can't tell you but I can show you." John ducked his head back down and his mouth came to rest on the material of Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock's hands bolted up and twisted themselves in John's hair. John's tongue left a slick trail along the front of his trousers, and by the time he was done, Sherlock was fully hard. It had been so long since he had experienced this feeling, being so hard that it physically  _hurt._

John took his time, but he finally undid Sherlock's belt. He let it fall open and began to make quick work of Sherlock's trouser button and zipper. Sherlock was barely able to contain himself as his hands ached to push John closer to him. John's hand came up and his palm made small circles on the material of Sherlock's exposed pants.

Sherlock's head tipped back and he dug his heels into the ground. He bit at the inside of his mouth and stoked his fingers through John's hair. John continued to give feather light touches to Sherlock until finally he lower his mouth down. A small feeling of warm air was the only warning he got before Sherlock knew John's mouth was on him.

John's tongue traced the outline of Sherlock over his pants. Sherlock tried to bring his mind into focus, but the only action he could understand was the sensation that was John's mouth. John's hands made their way up from their perch on Sherlock's knees and slowly began to peel Sherlock's pants down.

Involuntarily, Sherlock's bottom moved up and allowed for John to take his trousers and pants down around his thighs and then over his knees. John scooted in closer, and his tongue teased its self to the underside of Sherlock's erection.

Sherlock felt his chest tighten. Never, in all of his years, had he ever felt anything so glorious. John's tongue trailed its way up and danced around the tip. John's tongue licked at him and Sherlock felt his cock twitch under his skillful movements. Sherlock was sure that he was clawing at John's skull, but the man in between his legs offered no complaint, so Sherlock didn't let up.

John licked up the pre-cum that had only began to leave his slit. His mouth took the tip of him in and his tongue traced a circle around him. Sherlock felt like a perverted lollipop. "Please, more...John." Suddenly, Sherlock had the overwhelming urge to demand more of John, but he couldn't find the words. Instead, it came out as a plea. "Oh, god. John, don't stop."

John hummed against him and took more of Sherlock's length into his mouth. Sherlock let out a sound of appreciation and moved his hips forward. The warmth was like nothing he had ever experienced and the knowledge that it was John doing it made the act so much more intimate, personal.

John's mouth began to move up and down. It was a slow action at first but he began to pick up pace quickly. Sherlock started to pant as his cock slide up and knocked against the back of John's throat. This was no deterrent to John, and he continued to suck him with vigor.

Sherlock distantly realized that John was moving too fast and that at his present rate, he would last no more than a few more minutes. He also realized, in a burst of clarity, that they should have been doing this on the first night that they had met.

Sherlock found his mind wandering to thoughts of him on his knees with John in his mouth. The image was so intimate and Sherlock wished for it more than he could dream possible. He remembered how perfect John's skin had looked with his shirt off and how he had wanted to trace every line and crevice with his fingers...and tongue.

Sherlock tilted his head forward and was rewarded with the view of seeing John's head bobbing up and down. Sherlock saw a flash of black curls in its place.  _Could I give John pleasure like this? Feelings so intense that he would stay and be mine. Forever._ The thought of John looking down at him, the way he was to John, sent a throb through Sherlock's body. He let out one final moan and Sherlock felt his world come undone.

John's mouth didn't stop moving until he had sucked up every last remaining drop of what Sherlock had to offer. Sherlock's fingers untangled themselves from John's hair and came to cup his cheeks. Sherlock felt the rough stubble and brushed his thumbs over it. He brought John's face up to look at him.

John's lips were red and swollen. There was moisture glistening on his chin and Sherlock had the urge to lick it off. John's eyes were staring up at him in an unreadable expression.  _Was it lust? Satisfaction? Desire?_ Sherlock continued to search his vocabulary, but he couldn't find the word to pinpoint the emotion.  _Affection? Could he possible l..._

* * *

Sherlock's eyes shot up in shock. It took a moment for his head to stop swimming, but after a moment of disorientation, Sherlock remembered where he was; alone in his flat. Sherlock looked down and screwed up his face at disgust at the stain on his pajama bottoms.  _That was...interesting._ Sherlock wasn't quite able to come to grips with what his subconscious had just done to him.

The clock began to chime and Sherlock realized with horror that John could arrive at any minute. He jumped up and made his way to the bathroom to have a lightning fast shower and change his clothes.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't been sure what to expect. John timidly made his way in after knocking and Sherlock let him in. He wouldn't met Sherlock in the eye and instead focused on one of the paintings hanging on the far wall.

"I'm sorry for what I said." John let out a long sigh. "I acted like a prick and..." John hesitated for a moment. "I suppose, are you my friend?" John's face finally turned to him and Sherlock was struck momentarily dumb by the emotions he saw in it.

There was uncertainty and a hint of fear- of being rejected. His eyes had small purple bags under them, and Sherlock dared to hope that John had lost sleep over him. John's shirt was slightly wrinkled, something the army doctor would never let normally happen. For all appearances, it seemed that their argument had not only affected him. Sherlock fought to keep his features straight and not break out into a stupid relieved grin.

"Yes, John. I'm your friend and I'd be happy to call you one."

John's eyes grew soft when he heard his name and his lips tugged up into an obscenely happy smile. "Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock knew his answering grin was just as ridiculous but he didn't care.  _John said my name. I didn't know another person could say it like that._ He had heard his name plenty of times before, but never in the way that John said it. Sherlock realized, with a start, that although they had known each other for almost a week, they hadn't been saying each other's names. It was heavenly, the feeling of intimacy that accompanied it.

 


	6. Brush Stroke 5

John sat perfectly still. In the last few days, he had finally accepted the fact that Sherlock wouldn't tolerate any talking from him while he was working. But to make up for it, Sherlock had taken to explaining his whole life story to John. Although there were times that he droned on and on, in general, Sherlock was pretty sure that John was actually  _enjoying_ listening to it. Something that never failed to boggle Sherlock's mind. They took breaks every hour, and for those 15 minutes, John would comment on all the stories Sherlock had shared with him.

"I'm not going to keep talking if you keep changing your facial expressions." Sherlock gently knocked his brush against his nose and gave John an irritated look.

"How am I not suppose to be affected? You're talking about triple homicide!" John's face look confused.

Sherlock pursed his lips.

That was all it took. John lifted up his hands in surrender. "All right, fine, Sherlock." John straightened his spine. "But, it really is amazing. Did you really sketch out the killer's profile from only those deductions?" John looked like an eager school boy and Sherlock so hated to disappoint.

"The Yard ignores the information right under their nose. I just made the logical steps needed to complete the puzzle." Sherlock ducked back behind the canvas, a huge smile on his lips.  _Amazing? I suppose it was._ At the time, he had just gotten weird looks from the police officers. He had heard whispers, not all negative, but always with a underlining malice to them. John offered his praise and that was it; no cutting undercurrent to it. Sherlock hummed as he traced the outline of John's face with paint.

* * *

"Oh, play that one I like."

John was on the couch sipping tea. The session was over for the day but John was free for the night, so once he had taken off and hung up the green shirt, he stretched out on the nearest piece of furniture.

Sherlock was afraid of scaring him away, so he picked up his violin. Before he could put bow to string, John had voiced his request. Sherlock turned from the window to look at him. He was wearing that horrid black and white striped long-sleeved shirt. Although Sherlock was loath to admit it, that shirt really was the essence of John; comfortable and homely.

_Homely._ The word didn't strike as much fear into his heart as it had before. Sherlock's opinion hadn't changed- he wanted John to stay after the painting was done. He didn't know how long it would take him to get bored of the other man, but something nagged at his mind that the answer was  **never.**

Sherlock wanted to look across at the couch and see John sitting there. To look over and not see John, it ate up at Sherlock. It sent small tendrils of fear, to think of someone else in the kitchen making tea. Of John being in someone else's kitchen making them tea. The thought of John never telling him he was 'amazing' and 'brilliant' left a John size hole in his chest.

Sherlock made a sound in the affirmative and began to play a relaxing beat. John snuggled deeper into the couch and let out a content sigh. Sherlock continued to play until a thought flitted across his mind, it refused to leave him be, and against his better judgement, he asked John.

"What ever happen to that date, John?" Sherlock continued to play on, his eyes focused outside the window.

It took John a few minutes to answer. Sherlock could almost hear the gears in the other man's mind turning and it filled him with anticipation. After what seemed like an eternity, John answered. "Horribly. I was in a cranky mood, for  _some_ reason, and she was just like all the others."

"The others?"

"Yes, I've gone on quite a few dates in my time." John chuckled. "I can never find the right one though. Irritating as all hell. Makes one wonder what the point of even looking is...How about you? Have a girlfriend?"

Sherlock abruptly stopped playing and turned his head over his shoulder to look at John. "I can't fathom why you just asked me that. Evidence, John, evidence." He went back to playing.

John let out a laugh. "I had to ask! Polite thing and all that."

Sherlock let out a snort.

"All right then, your boyfriend, what about him?"

Sherlock tried to keep up the tempo, but in his shock, he missed a cord and the music came to a screeching halt. Sherlock gulped. While it was true that he was gay, Sherlock was afraid how John would react. No one in the public knew his orientation and he preferred to keep it that way. If he had to guess, Sherlock would say John was bi-sexual but he still didn't have enough facts.

Sherlock didn't realize how long he had been standing motionless, until John called out to him. "Oi! Earth to spaceman!" Sherlock blinked a few times, bringing himself back to the present.

"I don't have a significant other if that is your question." Sherlock felt a need to offer more than just the bear minimum. "Not many people actually want to go out with Sherlock the 'insufferable man' even though it does come attached to Sherlock the 'talented painter'. Sherlock hated sounding so pitiful, but in that moment, he really did feel a small sadness seep into him.

"Well, they're all fools." John's voice had a tight quality to it. Sherlock turned around to ask him what he meant, but before he could get the words out, John sprung up from the couch. "I'm going to grab some of those biscuits." John quickly retreated into the kitchen.

Sherlock was shocked to find how sad it made him. "We're all fools, John." Sherlock said softly and continued to play his violin once again.

* * *

"John! Stop it!"

"Stop what?" John looked honestly surprised at Sherlock's outburst. Sherlock had no idea how he could sound so innocent; surely John had to know what was going on. Sherlock had been trying to draw John's lips for the last twenty minutes but John kept licking them. The saliva would cause John's lips to change color and it kept distracting him.

John had always the habit of licking his lips, but in the last few days it had become an even more frequent habit. Sherlock tried his best to ignore it, but it was slowly becoming harder and harder not too. Sherlock wanted to take that tongue in his mouth and do all sorts of things with it. He wanted it to be his mouth that put moisture on John's lips, and his teeth that nibbled on John's lower lip. Sherlock shook his head in frustration.

"Can you just stop licking your lips for five minutes. You like a lizard, for god-sake!"

John licked his lips again. Realizing his action, he blushed. "Sorry, its just been a hectic few days with the hospital and my sister and you. I've not had any...um, 'me time' and..." John looked horrified at what he was trying to convey to Sherlock.

"John, are you telling me that you haven't had the opportunity to masterbate, and it's making you uncomfortable?" Sherlock asked with concern and interest.

John's face turned bright red and he looked scandalized. "I suppose that's it...in so many words. God, Sherlock, you don't have to be so clinical about it."

Sherlock was about to offer his shower so that John could get the deed out of the way and he could go back to painting. Suddenly, a thought struck Sherlock. He could offer the shower, or he could offer...Sherlock stood up and put down his paint brush.

He had seen it in the way John's eyes would sometimes move over his body. When Sherlock played the violin, he could feel John's gaze lingering on his ass and shoulders. The way that John's fingers would brush up against his when offering tea. The true concern that John's voice had when he asked how much Sherlock had eaten and if he was getting enough sleep.  _It might not be everything, but it might be enough for this._ He really didn't have enough data, but he was feeling reckless and for once in his life, Sherlock decided to jump in head first. 

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John's voice asked shakily. John's eyes were gleaming and a flush was working its way up from his chest and blossoming onto his cheeks.

"Let me help you."

Sherlock said no more and he crouched in front of John. John's hands gripped the arms of his chair and his body tensed. Sherlock gently let his touch move up from John's knees to his crouch. John let out a hiss and his fingers dug deeper into the material of the chair.

Sherlock's eyes inspected the bulge before him. It was obvious that John was aroused, but whether it was from sexual frustration or the man crouching before him, Sherlock couldn't tell. Realizing that he really didn't care, Sherlock began to unzip John's trousers.

John let out a breath and his fingers moved from the chair to Sherlock's curls. He gently traced the outline of them and Sherlock felt John's body relax. Sherlock took a few steading breaths as he brought a hand to John's erection.

John moaned and his body arched up slightly. "Sherlock...what are..." But John's question was lost in his throat when Sherlock's tongue began to lick up his cock. Sherlock could taste the sweat of John and it was superb. All thoughts of resistance stopped on John's end and Sherlock felt his body surrender.

John let out another groan as Sherlock nibbled at him through his pants. John's hands were frantically moving through Sherlock's hair- down as far as he could go, to touch his neck, ears and temples. John's erratic movements excited Sherlock and he quickly pulled down John's pants.

Sherlock was rewarded with John's whole body moving so that he could bring this pants and trousers down farther. Sherlock let his tongue make a lazy path up John. He kissed the area around John's erection tasting the sweat around his inner hips. One opened mouth kiss ended with Sherlock's teeth grazing across John's skin.

John hummed in appreciation and Sherlock brought his teeth down harder. John's hands pressed Sherlock down and he made sure to leave a bruise. Sherlock brought his head back up and took John's cock into his mouth.

"Sherlock...!" It was a strangled cry and John gritted his teeth.

Sherlock's motions were fast and frantic. John began to breath heavily and his body began to tense. "Slow down..." John tried to pant out but Sherlock paid him to heed. Instead, his actions quickened and before John could stop himself, his orgasm enveloped him.

Sherlock relished the taste of John in his mouth. He moved his mouth away, only after he had gotten every last bit that the doctor had to offer. Sherlock licked his lips and was thrilled by the taste of John all over him.

He finally moved his head up to look at John. John's face was rugged and he was panting. There was something aglow in his eyes and Sherlock felt his chest tighten. John's hand cupped under Sherlock's chin and he brought Sherlock's upturned face to his own. Before lips could collide, Sherlock pulled away.

With confusion all over his face, John tried to align his thoughts. "Sherlock, I don't understand."

Sherlock backed away farther. He stared up at John from his sitting position on the floor. "What do you want from me?"

John's hand covered his face. When he brought his hand away, John focused his eyes. His pupils were still dilated and he was obviously struggling to keep his thoughts in a coherent order. "I thought this would make it obvious."

 


	7. Brush Stroke 6

Sherlock didn't understand love. Naturally, he knew the chemical reactions it was based on. Hormones, dopamine, endorphins- all surging wildly through a person's body urging them forward for just "one more hit" of that other person.

No, it wasn't the science that was the mystery- it was the other person. Sherlock was sure he was in love with John Watson. When he was near him, Sherlock's pupils would dilated, his breathing would become faster and a lustful surge would branch out into his veins when John touched him. That was love.

Sherlock also knew that John didn't love him. There was lust, allowing Sherlock to pleasure him was proof enough for that, but Sherlock knew in the back of his subconscious that no one would ever love him...at least not for the reasons "average" couples loved each other.

There had been a time when Sherlock thought he had been loved in return. He had been sixteen and he had had an affair with his paint instructor. His teacher had done to him, what he had done to John and they had started a "relationship".

Sherlock knew it wasn't real but it still didn't stop him from caring. His paint instructor had been married and the only act he would allow them to participate in had been purely sexual. Sherlock had tried to kiss him only once; his face had been slapped, and the older man had warned him, "Don't ever try that again. Don't think for one moment that you have permission to do that."

The young seventeen year old had seen the eyes that were usually so filled with tenderness, turn to rage. Against his better judgement, Sherlock had exposed his heart. "Why? I love you...don't you love me?"

Sherlock would never forget the hallow laugh that had erupted from his lover's mouth. He looked at Sherlock with pity and disgust. "Love you? No, you're convenient. No one could ever love  _you._ "

Their sexual liaisons had stopped after that day. Sherlock tried only once to touch his instructor but his hand had been batted away. "Don't ever touch me again." After that he had left and Sherlock had begun painting on his own; refusing all assistance his parents tried to hire for him.

Sherlock rarely thought of his only past lover, but his acts and words had left their mark on Sherlock Holmes. Whatever part of his heart that had been opened to others was sealed off and he never trusted his emotions again.  _Decisions are to be based in logic alone._

He had given up all hope until he had met John. It wasn't that Sherlock saw his older lover in the man, more that everything was different. John had his dark side, but he was kind, gentle and made Sherlock laugh. And that was something Sherlock had never dared to hope for before.

Although Sherlock knew what he had done on impulse won't ruin their relationship, he knew that the kiss would. If their lips touched, if a kiss was everything that Sherlock dared to believe it could be, then he knew he would break the promise he had made to himself almost ten years before.

_I will never tell another soul that I love them. Ever._

John's lips. Sherlock knew they could bring about a confession. Of a love that Sherlock could barely name but a yearning he felt so strongly. It would be his undoing, and he would lose someone so precious to him that Sherlock didn't think he could ever breath again if he lost John. Obviously, Sherlock knew that John would someday leave him, and his world would splinter but he would be damned if he hastened John's departure.

Sherlock knew that he could never have John. Never be with someone who was so much greater than what he was. Because, although science and art was everything to Sherlock Holmes, he realized that the world was not made for a man such as him, but for men like John Watson. Men who were brave and strong; who could face any challenge and come out the victor. Men who...

" _Sherlock."_

Sherlock's world came clashing back to reality. He was still on the floor. John's breathing had returned to normal and his trousers were buttoned up. Sherlock tried to find something  _anything_ to say but his mind was a complete blank.

"Sherlock, come here." John motioned with his hand. Sherlock debated standing up but instead crawled the few feet back to John. It was the softness in John's voice that moved Sherlock. Although Sherlock was loath to admit it, the anxiety of John rejecting him was crushing his insides.

"Come here." John patted his thigh. Sherlock laid a tentative hand on it. Sherlock let his hand absorb the warmth that John offered him. Slowly, he lowered his head and Sherlock's cheek rested on John's thigh. Something that had coiled itself so tight inside Sherlock released. He closed his eyes.

John's fingers brushed through Sherlock's curls. He only gently stroked the top of them but gradually his fingers began to give the top of Sherlock's head a massage. Sherlock let out a content sigh.

"This is good too, Sherlock." John's voice was soft. Sherlock heard an underlining meaning in John's words but he was concentrating too much on the fingers in his hair to pay the thought any attention.

Sherlock tried to stop it, but soon he was humming softly as John continued to comfort and reassure him of his presence.

* * *

Sherlock stared at the blue eyes looking back at him. John's lips had been difficult but the insufferable man's eyes were proving to be an even deeper problem. The colors swirled in them and just when Sherlock thought he had the right tone or the correct shade, something would change about them.

The rest of the portrait was almost done. Five days had passed since Sherlock had "attacked" John and although their relationship had changed; many aspects stayed the same. John made tea and stayed late after each session. But now Sherlock would sometimes lay his head in John's lap and the man's fingers would brush through his curls and on his ears, neck and other parts of his skin that sent an electric shock through him. Sometimes, Sherlock would place a hesitant hand on John and stroke his arm or shin, any part that he could touch.

They hadn't done anything sexual after that first time. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't want to, but more he sensed that John was hesitant for him too. Sherlock desperately wanted to ask John... _Damn it! I have all the information, I should be able to figure this out for myself._ And yet he couldn't.

Those blue eyes. Sherlock started to feel anger tinting his frustration. He had never had such an issue with a portrait before. In fact, this painting was taking so long his brother had called to complain. Sure, he could use the excuse of working on the case with Lestrade but still, Sherlock knew it was really John Watson slowing him down.

The solider. The doctor.

Sherlock's eyes softened and he smiled at the portrait of John. His fingers came up, wanting so desperately to touch his face, but even if it was just the portrait, Sherlock knew he couldn't. John stared back at him. Sherlock's lips began to move and he didn't try to stop them.

"John, I don't know what I can offer you to make you stay. What words could convey to you how I...have come to  _need_ you. I knew I was alone before but it never bothered me. Now, the thought of you leaving, never to return, it makes my head ache." Sherlock bit his lip. If he was going to bare his soul, he might as well do it properly. "My  _heart_ aches. I wish I could give you everything you ever wanted, but I can only give you myself; something that no one has ever wanted before." Sherlock shivered.

The next words came out as only a whisper. The empty flat and John's portrait were the only witness to it. "I love you."

* * *

The television blared through the flat. John was sitting on the couch with his legs propped up on the coffee table. He sipped at his tea and mindlessly stared at the TV screen. John snuck occasional looks at Sherlock, and whenever he caught John's eyes, the blonde man would give him a small smile.

Sherlock finished the last few brush strokes needed to complete another composite for Lestrade. It was nearing midnight and he would rush it over first thing in the morning. Now, he closed his notebook and made his way over to the couch and John.

He flopped down and curled up against the doctor. John let out a huff and nearly spilled his tea. Sherlock let a small sigh and John wrapped his arm around the taller man. John's hand probed out to touch Sherlock's chest. Fingers traced a pattern on his cotton shirt, leaving a trail of sensation in its wake.

Sherlock stilled his breathing. He focused his attention on the increasingly erratic pace of John's heart. John's breathing came in deep and shallow; his fingers began to tremble. Sherlock was about to ask John if he was all right, but the question died in his throat.

John's hand worked its way up from Sherlock's chest to his neck. His fingers stroked up and down, exploring the sensitive skin around his adam's apple. John's fingernails gently raked against him. Sherlock stretched out his neck- demanding more of the sweet burning enveloping him.

John's thumb worked his way up to Sherlock's chin. His thumb rubbed back and forth on Sherlock's lower lip. Sherlock sat, frozen- too scared that he would break the trance. John dragged his thumb downward and Sherlock's lip moved with it. With the small amount of saliva on his thumb, John traced Sherlock's bottom lip.

Becoming bold, John's thumb dipped into the parted lips of Sherlock. The pad of his thumb just on the inside of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock pulled his lip back and John's skin scrapped along the inside of his mouth.

Sherlock gently moved his head forward and took John's thumb in between his teeth. He bit down and his tongue flicked up on the underside of John's digit. John sucked in a breath and his body tensed. Sherlock moved to release John.

"No..." His voice was small but Sherlock could hear how thick with emotion it had become.

He obeyed John's command and took his thumb back into his mouth. Sherlock began to suck, dragging John thumb back and forth along his teeth. His tongue flicked along his nail. Suddenly, Sherlock wanted more.

Both of Sherlock's hands surrounded the one near his mouth. Sherlock coxed John's fingers apart and brought John's pointer up to his mouth. Sherlock released John's thumb and latched on to the longer, thinner finger.

Sherlock calmed his nerves. His first instinct had been to be suck as hard as he could; demand all of John. Instead, he took John's finger up to his second knuckle in his mouth. John pressed his finger down on Sherlock tongue and the detective pushed it up to the top of his mouth in reply.

"Um..." John sighed. He wiggled a little when Sherlock's mouth began to suck harder. Sherlock released John's finger from the tight pressure and began to move his head back and forth. Sherlock could taste the saltness of John and the texture of him in his mouth was delicious. John's skin felt like a furnace.

"Sherlock."

At the sound of his name, Sherlock released John's hand, took his finger out of his mouth and he began to slide down the couch. With a quick movement, John stopped Sherlock from getting on his knees. John brought Sherlock's face to focus on his own.

"I don't want you to do that."

Sherlock cocked a questioning eyebrow at John.

"No, no. I do, but I want something else." John's tongue darted out and licked his lips. Sherlock gulped. He hesitated for a moment. "John, you know I..." Sherlock had no idea how he could finish the sentence without confessing everything.

 


	8. Brush Stroke 7

"You know I..." There was a lump in his throat. Sherlock tried to talk through it but his words got trapped around it. He scrunched his eyes closed; blocking out the disappointed expression that was sure to be on John's face.  _No matter what he says, it doesn't matter. It. Doesn't. Matter._

Sherlock felt soft fingers on his cheek. "I don't want it to be about the sex. I mean, I like it, but Sherlock, look at me." The last words were spoken with such sincerity, and against his better judgement, Sherlock opened his eyes.

"I want to know you. I care about you. Do you feel anything other than lust for me?" John smiled at Sherlock. John's fingers gently stroked Sherlock, calming him.

Sherlock's thoughts were still too much of a jumbled mess. Whether a minute passed or five, the detective had no idea. But John waited patiently, allowing Sherlock to arrange his thoughts and emotions.

"I care about..." Sherlock's brain was short-circuiting.  _How do I convey this?_

John looked confessed but comprehension slowly dawned. "I don't really understand, but I want too." John licked his lips. "If you need more time, I can wait. Well, not forever but Sherlock, you don't need to recite me poetry."

John smiled and his eyes lit up. Sherlock found himself stunned under the weight of it. "Believe me, Sherlock. If anything, over the last few weeks, I've learned you're nothing less than extraordinary."

Sherlock gave him a soft smile and scooted back up on the couch. They held onto each other in silence.

* * *

Sherlock had worried that the "conversation" would make being around John awkward or tense, but instead it made his presence even more welcome. Sherlock more readily allowed himself to just hold John and the doctor was perfectly all right with accepting all forms of physical touch.

But, occasionally, a black mood would take over Sherlock. He tried to prevent it but he was still Sherlock. Luckily, John "rolled with the punches". There were times that John would make an excuse and leave, but more often than not, John wouldn't shirk away from the darker side of Sherlock. The part that most couldn't bare to be around.

"Stop pouting."

"I'm not "pouting", it's called "thinking" something you know little about." Sherlock was laying on the couch with his hands steepled. True, Lestrade had been quiet and the morgue had had no new body parts, so his supply was shockingly low, and that wasn't putting him in an agreeable mood. There was also the added fact that he was trying to draw out the picture with John; an even exchange of pleasure and pain but still...

...he wasn't pouting.

Sherlock released a sigh.

"I swear I can see the black clouds circling around you. Come on, let's go out and see a movie or walk around town. Get that blood circulating!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Your  _average_ activities will not enthrall me into a state of bliss, John." Vaguely Sherlock wondered if it really would do him any good, but his bones felt like jelly. The thought of being surrounded by so many people also unsettled him. No, he needed to be alone- well, alone in the flat with John.

"Do you want me to leave?" John asked timidly. Sherlock heard some movement and John walk over to him. Sherlock sensed John's gaze on his face.

Sherlock kept a straight face. He waved a hand dismissively in the air. "If you want too. I'm not keeping you here."

A silence stretched out for a few moments. Finally, John asked, "Do you  _want_ me to leave?"

It was barely noticeable, but Sherlock shook his head only once. Fingers flicked Sherlock's forehead and he opened eyelids in shock. John gave him a loop-sided grin. "I'll make us some tea. Which you don't have to drink, but I'm still making. I've got a book I want to finish anyway." John turned away but added, "You twat."

A smirk flicked over Sherlock's lips.

* * *

Three days later, Sherlock no longer had any excuses to not finish John's eyes. The portrait was almost complete, but the eyes still remained two blue orbs with no set emotion. No matter how Sherlock approached the problem, nothing worked.

He threw down his brush in frustration. John's eyes refocused- he had been staring off into their own world. "Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock brought his hands up to his hair and raked angrily through his curls. "No! I'm not "okay"! I can't paint your eyes! Whatever you're thinking about- stop it. You, you keep flashing different emotions and are making this incredibly difficult!"

Even though he had just been yelled at, John was finding it difficult to keep a smile from creeping up into his lips. "What emotions are you seeing?"

Sherlock let out another huff. "Like you see everything with a perfect clarity. As if there is nothing else in the world. You look so content! Then you look like you want to kick something! Your feelings are so intense and keep switching. Just stop it!" Sherlock knew it was jealously. He wished John's eyes would look like that at the thought of Sherlock Holmes. But it was someone else,  _a tramp most likely,_ that John was fixated on. It made his blood boil.

John sighed. "You know, for being a genius, you're really dumb."

"What?" Sherlock threw up his hands.

"What do you see, Sherlock?"

The anger was uncontrollable. If it wasn't anger, it would have been sadness, and Sherlock couldn't handle that. Would  _not_ allow John to see that side of him. No one could ever see that side of him. "What else do you want me to say?! Just understand the point that you need to blank your thoughts." Sherlock sat tight lipped. "I know enough of your personality to paint if you would just stop letting your emotions run amuck."

John's eyes grew soft. "You really are a moron."

"No need to name call, John."

* * *

No matter what he did there was still an essential part of the portrait missing. The man on the canvas was an exact likeness of John but it wasn't John. When Sherlock looked at it he saw the man.  _Anyone can draw a man. I draw souls. I pull a part of themselves out of the depths and put it on display for the whole world._

Sherlock continued to stare at the portrait without moving. John kept quiet for an hour before his curiosity got the better of him. "Do I have something on my face?"

"Its the lack of what's on your face." Sherlock's voice was sour.

"You look like you swallowed a lemon. Make lemonade." John offered a toothy grin.

"What? 'make lemonade'? Why?" Sherlock was momentarily distracted from his problem with picture, to try and understand John's odd words.

"It's just an expression. You know, 'when life gives you lemons, make lemonade'." John patiently explained.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "And you say I'm the moron."

"Sure. Back to the original question, why are you staring a hole into my portrait? I think it came out bloody well fantastic! You really are a proper genius." John stood up and walked behind Sherlock to admire the painting.

Sherlock lolled his head back and looked up at John's chin. "Of course  _you_ would say that. No, there's something missing. What, I can't put my finger on. John! Even though I am loath to admit it, this has never happened before."

"Really? Never?" John tilted his head down. There was a self-satisfied smirk on his face and Sherlock hated to see that expression on anyone but himself.

"I will never repeat that, John. So I hope you listened well."

Their eyes locked. It was odd being the one looking up at John. His face hung forward and Sherlock loved the way that John's short fringe hung off his forehead. He felt small; that he had un-expectantly opened up his features too wide to the man standing above him.

It was another late night. John worked mostly during the day, so normally John and Sherlock spent their time in the late and early hours of the day. John always went home to sleep at his place. Sherlock had been tempted to ask him to stay one night, but then he realized that John needed more sleep than him, and his tossing and turning won't be good for the doctor.

The lights were on, but they were dim. The shadows played off of John's chin and nose. Accenting his features, and Sherlock had the uncontrollable urge to trace him again like he had done once before. "Can I sketch you?"

John laughed. "Am I really worth the extra time?" He dipped down and placed a small kiss on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling in surprise as John sat down on the couch. "Come on!"

Sherlock shook his head, clearing it. He picked up his sketch book and a number 2B pencil. Perching on the arm of the couch, Sherlock opened his sketch book. The lighting was different, now there was the added light of the street lamp outside but Sherlock liked it nevertheless.

"You still haven't figured it out have you?"

"Um...?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Me. That's why you were staring at my painting like you wanted to light it on fire. You can't deduce me." John scratched at the back of his neck.

"I will. I just need the necessary information." Sherlock continued to work on his lines.

"Which would be...?"

"Which would be  _who_ you were thinking about." Sherlock's body tensed and he stopped mid-pencil stroke. He nibbled at the side of his mouth. Dreading the inevitable answer.

The sketch pad was taken out of Sherlock's hands. He let it slip out and John placed it on the coffee table. He took the pencil and put it on top on the drawing. His hands covered Sherlock's; just a smoothing touch.

Sherlock scoffed.  _As if I need comfort from being told I'm not needed._ He began to recite the periodic table in his head, refusing to let anything else cross his mind. He saw their fingers intertwined on his legs but the sensation of skin on skin didn't reach his brain.

"Deduce than."

"What?"

"Well, you need to piece it all together. Just tell me what you know and I'll supply the "mysterious" extra information." There was a lightness to John's voice that Sherlock couldn't place.

Although Sherlock hated to collaborate, he finally realized, that in this unique instance, only talking it through with John would reap the needed results.

"You obviously care about someone. It's relatively new because, when I first met you, your features never held this quality. Which tells me you never liked that "Mary" girl..." Sherlock was rewarded with a snort from John. "You've been busier than normal but that is making you happy. You like to keep busy, but the monotony can overwhelm you at times. You enjoy your time here, relaxes your nerves."

Sherlock shifted his hands, so that they were cupping John's smaller ones. He needed to feel that warmth one last time. Without the knowledge that was about to come forth. "This person, the new person in your life, you care for them...more so than you have for others. They break up your day. You think about them often, your mind wanders to them. You find that, although you thought they would be just like everyone else, you were wrong."

Sherlock realized he wasn't just talking about John anymore.

"Life without them doesn't make sense anymore. They're a fixture, not a luxury. Even when you're near them, you find your thoughts are filled with them...without realizing it your mind finds comfort in them. It's fast, but at the same time, you know you have waited your whole life for it. In reality, it was a lifetime of waiting."

John had been right. The picture was becoming clearer. The pieces were falling into place. His speech sped up, his words spilling out, trying to keep up pace with his brain.

"You know its real. The kind of connection with a person that never fades. Time doesn't matter. It gripped you and now there's no turning back. You love the person and they don't know. Because, no matter how bright your eyes become John, there is always a grief shaded around the edges."

To the best of his ability, John squeezed Sherlock's left hand. Sherlock lifted his gaze from their hands and to John's face. Sherlock gasped lightly. "That look."

"You mean the look I have when I'm looking at the person I love?" John's voice shook at the last word.

"Yes." Sherlock breathed out.

Because the final puzzle piece had finally fallen into place.

 


	9. Brush Stroke 8

"You love me." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, you incredible madman." John smiled, but there was a hesitance in it. John's hands untangled themselves from Sherlock and came to rest on his face. Sherlock was still perched on the arm of the couch, so John readjusted his position; he was on his knees, nestled between Sherlock's incredibly long legs.

"Oh..." Sherlock's eyes glossed over. "Oh." Even though there was no movement, Sherlock's brain was firing off on all pistons. He was replaying everything that had taken place between them since the night he and John had met. It was so obvious...and John had seen it before him. Sherlock finally saw it- John was perfection. "Oh!" Sherlock blinked and he gasped.

"John! I reciprocate your emotions." Sherlock's hand flew up and landed on John's chest.

"I've never quite been told in that way before." John teased.

"Not to put down your previous relationships, but I do find that I am not normally comparable to the masses." Sherlock's fingers began to tinker with one of the buttons on John's red shirt.

"I suppose not. So, are we in a relationship now?" John's hands moved down to Sherlock's neck. He began to finger through the soft hair on Sherlock's nape.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Only if you want to be. I'm not accustomed to forcing myself onto others."

John laughed. "Yeah, sure you're not."

Sherlock went to rebuttal, but John tugged at Sherlock's hair hard causing him to give a small yelp of surprise.

"Yes! You crazy beautiful man." Without another second passing, John closed the gap between them.

It started in a clash of lips. They were pressed closed and Sherlock only felt chapped skin rubbing against each other. Sherlock had no idea what to do. He puckered his lips but instead of making it better, it only served to mush their mouths together at a more awkward angle.

John moved his head away laughing. A blush covered Sherlock's cheeks and neck, he didn't think he'd ever been more embarrassed in his whole life. He had to explain that,  _I don't have any data, John. How can I do this successfully with nothing to compare it too?_

But John wasn't laughing because he was upset. "This is the most ludicrous thing we've ever done! But god, I can just imagine how fantastic this is going to be. Here sit still."

John held Sherlock's head, to made sure the taller man didn't move. John tilted his head and licked his lips. He brought them down on Sherlock in just a feather light touch. It was smooth and Sherlock's lips parted slightly.

The doctor continued his assault on the gorgeous man before him. His lips began to linger for longer intervals on Sherlock. He kissed him full on the mouth, but also on the sides and all around.

Sherlock went limp under all the attention he was receiving. His body was liquid, molten fire ran through his veins. He had no idea a kiss could feel so intimate. That, although he had done other sexual acts, the closeness to the other person in this singular  _act_  could leave him so breathless. Although other parts of his anatomy were obviously more sensitive, this obtained the intimacy he had craved.

The connection to another person- to not only paint a soul but to know it fully. To not be the man always on the outside. John was giving this to him. One glorious man was offering all of this to Sherlock and the only request he made was to be apart of his life. It blew Sherlock's mind apart like nothing ever had before.

As John came in for another brush against Sherlock, he let his tongue slip out and it connected with John's lower lip. John released a moan and Sherlock found he couldn't hold back any longer.

The kisses that had been lazy, moved to a frantic pace. Sherlock crushed his lips onto John. However, realizing his error, Sherlock moved back so that they were still touching but no pain was there. He mirrored John's moments from before and found that he liked giving just as much as he liked receiving.

Not enough of their bodies were touching for Sherlock's taste, so in one single well calculated fall, he landed on top of John on the couch. He heard John let out a small 'huff' but he recovered marvelously and went back to his previous action of kissing Sherlock senseless.

As Sherlock became more daring, John's body began to writhe under him. The shorter man wiggled and groaned. Finally, his groin began to grind into Sherlock. He was pleased to see that, even with only kissing, John was a bundle of sexual nerves.

John disconnected his mouth and began to assault the surrounding areas of Sherlock's mouth. His fingers began to claw at Sherlock's shirt, untucking it and pushing it up his torso. "Shirt. off."

Sherlock lightly pushed off John's chest and straddled him sitting up. Within a flash, all of the buttons were undone and Sherlock's silk shirt was in a pile on the floor. He went to bend back down, but hands came up and started to touch the white expanse of his chest.

As fingers made gliding motions all over his chest and stomach, Sherlock let out a small shiver. "God, you really are something." Hands moved their way up to fiddle with erect nipples. Sherlock let out a groan of appreciation and his hips began to move. It was a slow rhythm; John, with his palms opened, began to rub his rough skin over Sherlock's nipples.

Sherlock responded beautifully to all the new stimuli. Dully, he wondered how much painting would get done when he realized that all he wanted to do for the rest of his life was this. His trousers were too tight and he decided to voice as much to John. Before his fingers could move from their resting spots, John's hands began to slide down. They lingered momentarily near his bellybutton, admiring the beginnings of a happy trail.

Sherlock waited with his anticipation, thankful that he would be released from the confides of his trousers. As he had expected, the doctor's hands made quick work of both his trousers and pants. Sherlock's erection strained up against his lower region and he groaned in thankfulness.

"I just realized. I never returned the favor." John's voice was hazy.

Sherlock barely registered the words before his mind exploded into a single focus of pleasure.

John's hands were sure and steady. They were callused and Sherlock could instantly recognize the difference of texture on his cock. As he hummed in his chest, John moved his hand up and down. Rhythm was easily obtained and Sherlock's eyelids fluttered shut.

Through his haze, he heard John muttering words. Most were endearments, but many were also chastising him on his inability to see the obvious. "We could have been doing this a month ago. Oh, god, Sherlock...just  _fucking_ gorgeous."

Although his comments would have normally gotten him chastised, Sherlock found that words won't form in his mouth. So, the let the sound of John's voice wrap around him as his hand had done.

John's thumb flicked at his tip, playing and circling it with his pre-cum. With the added slickness, John began to pick up pace. Sherlock's hips moved up and down, bumping up against the blonde man's erection.

With a blinding force, Sherlock achieved orgasm. He sputtered out a few words and before his body began to convulse. "John...!" Being able to call out that name as he came, was a glorious thing.

When he finally opened his eyes to look back down at John, he could see the man underneath him still had eyes lidded heavy with need.

Sherlock shimmied down John, intent on his goal.

* * *

"But why?"

"Because, I feel like my reflection is staring a hole in me and it makes me uncomfortable. Besides, if you want me lovingly gaze down at you all you have to do is ask."

"You mean gaze 'up', John."

"You're an ass."

"I honestly wish you won't resort to name calling."

John rolled his eyes and turned back to brewing his tea and buttering their toast.

Sherlock had been awestruck at how the portrait of John Watson had come out once he had finished the piece. However, when Sherlock saw the finished product, he realized he wanted no one else but himself to see that look in his lovers eyes. So, John's portrait became the very first one that Sherlock kept.

Mycroft had pissed and moaned. But Sherlock promised to start of Madam Baskerville the next day and that had appeased his exasperated older brother.

Sherlock had wanted to hang the painting in their bedroom but after the first night, John had demanded Sherlock take it down. After a ten minute argument while making breakfast, Sherlock finally relented.

"Just keep it in the closet." John said and sat back down at the kitchen table.

"Ah, the closet. Somewhere I'm sure you're used to being John."

John choked on his toast. "What the  _hell_  is that suppose to mean?"

"I mean that when 'Mary' walked away you didn't seem to distraught. Yet, I come round and..." Sherlock smirked. "I not only see but I observe."

John snorted. "Yeah. Now eat your toast."

Sherlock gave John a cheeky smile and took a small nibble of buttered toast.

Sherlock had been right. He loved waking up and sitting at the table with the same person who had occupied the position next to him at dinner the night before.

"I love you, John."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting a new fanfic "Of Scale & Flesh". bbot802 submitted the idea to me. It's a AU Beauty and the Beast, but Sherlock is a dragon. I really like the idea. Hope you'll come and join me! 3


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